Saturday

Fiction by Teresa Fazio. “'Well, damn, it feels good to be a gangsta.' Page pulled her pants up to her chest as she walked out the door."

This story first appeared in Vol. 8

It was Saturday, but that didn’t matter. Every day was the same.

Lieutenant Page could smell Clive’s Marlboro smoke as she sat at her plywood desk. She hadn’t slept well, and her caffeine-addled scrawl spanned several Post-its on which she’d recorded the crypto keys. She folded them in half, sticky-side in, and pocketed them. Yesterday, the Captain had chewed her ass for leaving a map of their communications network open on her desk, and she was trying not to piss him off again. She reached for a manila envelope with her right hand. With her left, she refreshed her email.

Clive was outside, around the corner of the small hut in which they stood watch. Page’s inability to see him didn’t mean she couldn’t hear him on the satellite phone with his daughter.

“Kirsten, sweetie?” he said, half-shouting into the handset. “Turn down the TV.”

Page caught another whiff of cigarette smoke.

“’Bout four in the morning,” Clive said.

“Aw, honey, it’s okay. This is my watch shift. It’s like a sleepover.”

Page looked through the single barred window. It had no glass. Pinpricked stars faded on dark velvet. Early morning still carried night moisture, but it wouldn’t last long. She’d heard this fine Iraqi day was supposed to top 115. They’d start the cable lay early and quit at noon. If Clive had anything to do with it, they’d tell the Marines to start back up again at sundown, but they both knew the Captain wouldn’t let them run a night crew. Page brushed her brown bangs from her face and stifled a yawn.